


the thing that burns within.

by all15ofthem



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon fix with a fantasy theme, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One Shot, Original Characters - Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Sci-Fi Romance, Spirit Animal AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all15ofthem/pseuds/all15ofthem
Summary: There was no recorded history that could pinpoint the exact moment in time when spirit animals started showing up on people’s skin or if they had always been there. The vague scientific explanation that was offered to keep the masses complacent was that the manifestation of one’s spirit animal depended on one’s soul, that if you were good and kind and driven, your spirit animal would show up quickly and whole, and if you misbehaved and were undisciplined and lazy, you wouldn’t be able to draw strength from your spirit animal until you were old and grey.Little Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich was a mischievous boy, and he knew it. He specifically chose to misbehave so he wouldn’t have to deal with the type of spirit animal that would inevitably show up on his skin one day. He was proud to have control over at least this part of his life: one insignificant part of his miserable young life as the youngest Milkovich boy. He didn’t need a spirit animal to save him, to help him, to guide him to his life’s purpose or something stupid like that.Until one day, trouble found him in the shape of a teenage redhead with a crowbar.





	the thing that burns within.

It wasn’t abnormal for a spirit animal to manifest later in life, even after their teenage years when the slight majority of the population would have already hosted theirs. Especially a larger spirit animal could take years to develop, showing up on the skin in tiny bits and pieces before disappearing back into the soul in order to find another part of itself, assembling itself piece by piece until it was fully formed and strong enough to materialize on their host’s skin. The bigger the spirit animal, the longer it could take, and the more energy the person’s soul would have to put into it. Though the manifestation was generally a painless process, especially for the smaller or more docile ones, some women described it as extreme cramping, and some men were crying on the floor in pain.

For some reason, the eyes tended to show up first. Until he was 10, Mickey had only ever seen a quick flash of green on his skin which he was convinced had just been the reflection of the sun on a beer bottle. 

Spirit animals were genderless, generally referred to as ‘it’ or ‘they’ and could not reproduce. The most common version of a spirit animal was an unattached one: one that could roam their host’s skin freely, showing up wherever and whenever it wanted. Most of them were always visible somewhere, but there were a number of notoriously reclusive spirit animals that only showed up when they found it truly necessary. Even more exceptional and rare were the so-called ‘fluid’ spirit animals: those that were moving between the stages of its life, like a caterpillar growing into a butterfly on the host’s shoulder, and showing up on their thigh as an egg a week later to start all over again. Many a person with a fluid bird-like spirit animal have claimed to be hosting a phoenix, but other than that one instance where it couldn’t be disproven that a woman had a static unicorn gracing her thigh, mythical spirit animals were just that -- a myth.

There was no recorded history that could pinpoint the exact moment in time when spirit animals started showing up on people’s skin or if they had always been there, but during World War II, it had been decided that the type of spirit animal was extremely important to judge the worth of a person. Science hadn’t yet been able to reliably explain and prove what the size, type and time of appearance of a spirit animal truly said about a person, but the Nazi Party was tired of all the obscure superstitions and guessing games surrounding the phenomenon and created ‘research’ facilities where Jews, homosexuals, and traitors were interviewed, analyzed and experimented upon. In the concentration camps, spirit animals were registered and classified, sorting the most commonly found spirit animals into categories and sub-forms along with their size, colors and their date and time of appearance while simultaneously studying how far they could push a person’s body before their spirit animal reacted in any way.

The research facilities published reports, articles, and books on the varying meanings of a multitude of spirit animals, publicly claiming that certain spirit animals were better than others, offering such vague descriptions reminiscent of cable television horoscopes as infallible proof. All throughout Europe, registers started popping up to record spirit animal appearances even as international scientists tried to disprove the ‘research’ theories thrown into the hungry minds of the common folk. But the damage had been done, and even after the Third Reich had fallen, the practice of registering spirit animals and qualifying them as something or other remained. Books were routinely published on how to make sure your child was gifted with a smart, sensible or aesthetically pleasing spirit animal, or how to handle people with dangerous spirit animals, or what to do when you were 18 and yours hadn’t shown up yet.

In the 60s, a hysteria unlike any other consumed America as the rich consulted registries for information on people’s spirit animals, and the dates and times they had shown up in order to better arrange the marriages of their children. Their teenage offspring without fully-formed spirit animals were inexplicably sent to boot camps where they were meant to ‘find themselves’, which meant their souls, their purpose in life, and in the process, their spirit animals. In order to alleviate the social and parental pressure, some kids would succumb to secretly having a ‘spirit animal’ tattooed on a hidden body part, claiming that it was a static spirit animal, that it had just shown up one day out of the blue. About 15 years after this hysteria, a wave of scandals erupted as these children, now fully grown and mostly independent of their parents, had found some peace of mind and subsequently had their real spirit animals show up: some static, which created a strange picture of dual-spiritualism, but most unattached, moving about and interacting with the image of another animal imprinted on their host’s skin. One particularly stunning example came when, during a late-night talk show, a former child star’s actual spirit animal showed up on his face during an interview. The newspapers ran the scandal for weeks, and though it was highly entertaining for the rest of the world, it proved a cautionary tale for helicopter parents pressuring their kids into early spiritual awakenings.

Another such tale was that of the people that went a few steps further and adopted the real version of their spirit animal. That invariably worked out fine when it was a dog, turtle or canary, but there was always that one story about the bear spirit that wasn’t able to defend its host from the actual version. Little Mickey always found those stories to be the most entertaining.

Unlike the rich, the poor had no use for such catalogs and registries; what did it matter if your wife had a zebra when you had a whale; you were still poor and working 3 jobs to keep food on the table, you were still robbed twice a month, you still had no access to health insurance and couldn’t save your daughter that needed a heart transplant. What did the equivalent of a moving tattoo matter when every day was a struggle to live, a struggle that neither zebra nor whale could alleviate. The entertainment value of such matters paled in comparison to their real-life dramas.

Regardless of monetary status, the appearance of one’s spirit animal had proven to be a great way of keeping children in line. Though it had yet to be scientifically proven how some children were born with their spirit animal crawling over their skin and some adults only manifested theirs upon reaching a certain milestone in life, the vague scientific explanation that was offered to keep the masses complacent was that it all depended on one’s soul, that if you were good and kind and driven, your spirit animal would show up quickly and whole, and if you misbehaved and were undisciplined and lazy, you wouldn’t be able to draw strength from your spirit animal until you were old and grey.

Little Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich was a mischievous boy, and he knew it. In primary school, he teased little girls and bullied little boys, he stole crayons and markers, broke pencils and bracelets, and cussed in front of the teacher. He hardly ever did his homework and he didn’t care to pay attention during class unless it was math. He pissed on first base at Little League because the commissioner had been an asshole to one of the little kids and he had just done it because he could. Because he didn’t care.

He specifically chose to misbehave so he wouldn’t have to deal with the type of spirit animal that would inevitably show up on his skin one day. He was proud to have control over at least this part of his life: one insignificant part of his miserable young life as the youngest Milkovich boy. He didn’t need a spirit animal to save him, to guide him to his life’s purpose or something stupid like that. He didn’t need anyone’s pity that his hadn’t shown up yet, that it was probably an ant or a bee or something completely stupid like a cockroach while his mother was a seahorse and his brother loudly claimed that he had seen a bald eagle on his arm one day before it had disappeared.

The significance of spirit animals didn’t always make sense and the Nazi lists and common prejudice could damage a person’s reputation long before they had said or done anything. In the same way that a seemingly dangerous spirit animal, such as a hippopotamus or snake, were considered to be a reflection upon the person’s soul, it was apparently _not_ a measure of one’s soul if an old and powerful CEO of a Fortune 500 company all of the sudden manifested a guinea pig. It had been known for children displaying ‘vicious’ spirit animals to very quietly be transferred into homeschooling after a certain age.

But none of that mattered to Mickey because he knew better than to listen to adults trying to rationalize a person’s spirit animal with their soul. The most soft-spoken, loveliest and kindest girl in his kindergarten class had always had a strange puppy running around her ankles, tickling her during nap time when it wanted attention. One day, the teacher had brought out a book on Africa and the Alphabet, complete with pictures of baby animals commonly found in Africa, and together with the entire kindergarten class, little Olivia was confronted with the fact that her tiny puppy was a hyena. The children didn’t care, because what was a hyena but a different type of dog puppy to them. The sheep-spirited teacher, however, had Olivia subtly transferred to another class, and Mickey never saw her again after that.

On the other hand, one of Mickey’s only friends in primary school, Craig, was a very hyper and annoying boy with a giant static owl covering his entire 11-year-old right forearm, its face facing forward, eyes closed, grey and black feathers drawn close to its body as if perpetually asleep. They would make it a game to spend hours staring at his arm, each taking turns not to blink so they wouldn’t miss the owl’s movement if it ever happened. As far as they could tell, the owl had never opened its eyes or even moved while they were watching it. It wasn’t until two years later, when Mickey was visiting an unconscious Craig in the hospital after he had been admitted for a gunshot to the chest from an accidental drive-by, that Mickey noticed the owl’s red eyes stand out on Craig’s pale skin. He had gasped and accidentally blinked, but when he took a closer look, the owl’s eyes were still staring back at him. After a few seconds of verifying that the owl hadn’t suddenly closed its eyes again, Mickey knew he had to tell someone, and he ran out to find Craig’s mother or older sister. He found both women around the corner and a little further down the hall, arguing with a tired head nurse about health insurance. In short, confusing sentences, he tried to describe to three fairly agitated women why it was imminent they stop arguing and come look at Craig’s arm instead. No, he hadn’t woken up, but his arm had, Mickey had said excitedly, come see, it’s his owl! Eventually, Craig’s older sister shook her head in exasperation and waved Mickey towards Craig’s room, wanting to get her brother’s friend off her mother’s radar. When they turned the corner into Craig’s room, they found a handful of people trying to resuscitate a very limp body to the sound of a charging defibrillator. Mickey ran around Craig’s sister into the room to Craig’s right side, but before he was pushed back by a scowling nurse, he noticed that Craig’s right forearm was completely bare, his owl gone.

It was said that very few spirit animals were strong enough to come back after their host’s first revival. Most of the times, people took the sudden disappearance of a spirit animal from a person’s body as a sign that the soul had reabsorbed its strength in order to protect the body as much as it could, or more drastically, that the soul had left with it. The church had yet to publish an official statement on the matter due to an incident with one of their older bishops.

Craig’s owl never came back, and neither did Craig. Even after he had been resuscitated that night, the owl didn’t reappear on his arm, and his sister took him off life support three days later because they couldn’t afford to pay for the machines to stay on. After the funeral, it took Mickey months to be able to look anyone’s spirit animal in the eyes again, even his own mother’s seahorse that so prominently stared him down from the side of her neck. It took him years to admit that he felt like Craig had not been able to open his eyes again because Mickey had seen his owl’s.

It was widely accepted that the spirit animal would grant the person strength or wisdom in their time of need, protecting its host’s body and soul. About 10% of the spirit animals were able to communicate with their host in one way or another; generally in images or strong feelings, and in extremely rare cases, with words. Their powers and abilities were the tales of myths and the everyday bread and butter of second-rate newspapers and gossip columns: mothers lifting cars off babies, babies surviving impossible falls, toddlers finding their way home after being kidnapped, people waking up just in time to save their family from carbon monoxide poisoning. The stranger stories included people that could understand what the bark of a dog meant, children with a sudden appetite for raw meat, a woman who had ripped open a mugger’s throat with her nails as if they were her tiger’s claws, and one particular little girl that could communicate with crows. Secretly, Little Mickey hoped that if his spirit animal did show up one day, it would be as cool and strong as a lion.

Like everyone else, Mickey had, of course, felt the presence of his spirit animal in his body. This generally happened through very short bursts of strength, such as keeping his spine straight and his neck from breaking when Terry was really drunk and going at it, healing his knuckles and the cuts on his face when he didn’t want his mother to cry herself into yet another drug-fueled coma for a week, pumping adrenaline and oxygen into his blood when he had to run, run, run faster, away from the people chasing him because of something his father, his brothers, or even his mother had done. He was the youngest and the shortest, and everyone always tried to crush _him_ to get back at the whole Milkovich family for some reason. But something deep in his veins, in the very bottom of his soul, would pick him back up, wouldn’t allow him to give up or give in, would fight, and fight again, and fight some more. He had only ever seen glimpses of it, an itch on his back that revealed a burst of color, something that could have looked like a paw, or a snout, or a tail. His family’s guesses ranged from a puppy to a scorpion, and Iggy would tease him for weeks about his spirit animal being Hello Kitty.

Mandy once said that she had seen an eye on the small of his back when she came to wake him up one day, just blinking and looking around before it disappeared as if it were checking up to see if he was still somewhere safe. Sadly, the appearance of the eyes had shocked her so much that she couldn’t remember its color, and Mickey had obsessively turned and twisted for hours in the mirror in the hopes of it showing up again. It didn’t.

The one time when he had felt truly powerful, for just a single moment, was when he was about 13 years old and had run home to find his mom absent, Terry very, _very_ far gone, and clothes strewn across the living room as a teenage Mandy yelled and screamed and clawed at her father. She was fighting Terry with all her might, but she was just a young girl and she could neither push Terry’s adult weight off of her with just her muscles nor fight the additional strength Terry’s Mastiff spirit animal gave him. Mickey was panting, a fire burning through his veins, his lungs rapidly expanding and contracting, feeding the flames with oxygen as his thoughts melted away until his vision turned into shades of red, blue and black, entirely focused on Terry’s face, his slurring voice telling Mandy to keep still, his hands grabbing at his sister’s breasts while the Mastiff on his father’s bare back had gone completely rabid, eyes crazed and foaming at the mouth. Mickey didn’t remember moving, but he was suddenly standing behind Terry, his hand reaching for him, fingers curled into invisible claws. The moment Mickey touched Terry’s Mastiff, electricity shot through his arm as his father’s spirit animal tried to defend the host, and Mickey couldn’t remember anything after that.

It would take him a few hours to wake up to a throbbing migraine, the minor loss of sensation in three of his right fingers and a puffy-eyed and fully clothed Mandy patting a cold towel to his forehead as he slowly blinked open his eyes. She would tell him that he had flung Terry off of her to the other side of the living room where their father had promptly hit his head and sank to the floor, eventually falling into a drunken stupor like he usually did, getting up half an hour later and walking out the door to hit up another bar as if nothing had happened. Mickey, on the other hand, had taken one more deep breath after his remarkable show of strength and then pitched forward, smacking his head hard and bleeding all over the carpet in the process, scaring Mandy into thinking he’d had a concussion or some internal brain bleeding or whatever people died of on a daily basis. She had dragged his limp body past their father’s limp body and into his bedroom, manhandling him onto the bed before cleaning up his blood and dressing his wounds as best as she could. He had assured her he was okay, look he could sit up and talk and why was that light so fucking bright and what was that smell, and Mandy threw herself into his arms, crying and hiccuping and mumbling incoherently into his shirt. He awkwardly patted her back, feeling his last reserves of strength slowly fading away as he came to terms that his sister was safe, that he had protected her, and that the danger had passed, at least for now.

She helped him get up and made him a slightly burned grilled cheese sandwich, which he ate very slowly to please her. She talked a mile an hour to fill the silence and he smiled at her lame jokes so neither of them would have to address the giant pink elephant in the room. He knocked back the painkillers she gave him without putting up a fight and then stumbled back to bed, gratefully crashing down onto the age-old squeaky mattress and not waking up for another 28 hours. Mandy sat in his room the entire time that he was asleep, reading and sleeping, eating and smoking and doing her nails, keeping his sleeping body company as well as protecting him in case Terry remembered what had happened the day before. She left for only a few minutes at a time to use the bathroom or quickly smuggle more food and cigarettes into the room with her, but she watched over him until he woke up again, feeling the sudden urge to protect him in his fragile state. During that time, a young snow leopard appeared above Mandy’s heart, its long tail wrapping itself around her neck as its eyes looked out into the world, partially static but for its light grey eyes, which would move to look straight at you when you least expected it.

The snow leopard’s eyes were the first thing Mickey saw upon waking up again, and it sent a jolt of emotion through his body, one he couldn’t recognize but he refused to believe was jealousy. Sorrow, maybe. Agony. Definitely envy. But also happiness: happy that Mandy now had more power to defend herself, spiritual teeth and claws to protect her against the evils of the world, and the evils of their home.

It would take him a few days to put the events of that night back together, arranging them into a narrative that made sense as he squeezed a tennis ball in his right hand to try and get the sensation back into it. He replayed it piece by piece in his head, which weren’t a lot given that he had blacked out almost immediately. The one part that didn’t make sense to him was that he had already been panting when he had smashed through the front door. He remembered the burn in his thighs, the sweat dripping down the back of his neck because… he had run home that night. In fact, he had started running about a block away from the house, had sprinted long before he had consciously realized why he was running and hadn’t thought to stop and question it for a single moment. He had no way to explain it, to rationalize what it could have been or why, so the only reasonable explanation was that his spirit animal had either heard Mandy’s screams from very far away or had instinctively known something was wrong on a deeper, possibly ‘spiritual’ level, whatever that meant. Something inside of him had made him do something he hadn’t been consciously aware of, and he didn’t like it, didn’t like not having control over his own body and mind. It was a bittersweet feeling to know that his lack of control had probably saved his sister from getting raped.

After that, he avoided any situation that could possibly bring his spirit animal to life. For years, he made sure to beef up and appear dangerous and menacing by keeping the Milkovich name alive in spirit rather than in deeds. He no longer purposely tried to get into a fight but he’d make sure to let Iggy know who to go after. After their mother died, he’d text Mandy to sleep over at someone else’s house when Terry was too far gone. He’d hang out under the bleachers after school for longer than was truly necessary to avoid going home at all costs. He made sure any guy ‘dating’ Mandy knew whose sister they were messing with so they’d think twice about hurting her. He’d steal food from the local corner store because he knew the pushover owner would never come after him. He did a few drug runs, but only those that were low risk, low pay, nothing exciting. He wasn’t actively seeking any trouble, or no more than he knew he could handle with his body alone. He had put his spirit animal on ice, kept it dormant, unneeded, unwanted. He didn’t miss it. Life went on. Mickey survived.

Until trouble found him.

A little birdie told him that the pushover store owner’s wife had bought a gun, and knowing that he was that store’s primary nuisance, Mickey had made sure to steal that gun at his earliest convenience so it wouldn’t be used against him. He had deemed it a purely self-preserving move, just making sure to keep the ball on his side of the court with regard to his own safety, nothing special. What he hadn’t expected was for some redheaded teenager to tap him on the shoulder with a crowbar one afternoon, demanding he return the gun he stole. Everything went downhill from there.

Ian Gallagher proved to be the worst possible disruption of Mickey’s entire life.

For no good reason whatsoever but for a certain twinkle in Ian’s eye that Mickey had correctly interpreted, Mickey had sex with his sister’s apparent boyfriend in his father’s house with the man himself physically present and snoring in the next room. In the subsequent post-orgasm haze, he had even given Gallagher the stolen gun back. He then proceeded to continue having sex with Gallagher wherever they could find 10 minutes of relatively free time to the point that Mickey knew Ian’s school and work schedules by heart and would mentally rate places on a scale from ‘too risky’ to ‘absolutely fuckable’. Mickey would catch himself randomly daydreaming about wanting to feel a pair of pale, freckled hands on his body, and the resulting heat that would spread through his body was starting to freak him out.

But no good deed goes unpunished, and albeit with a certain delay, Mickey was shot in the leg with the same gun he had returned to Ian, and subsequently punished for his general existence by the judicial system.

Juvie was great, as usual, except for that mick that kept trying to steal his jello because the crutches made him look weaker (and smaller) than he was. Thankfully, crutches could also be used to smash someone’s head in, so ‘trying’ remained the appropriate word. Mickey had finally beaten that twisty knot of random feelings back in its place and could say with absolute confidence that he didn’t want anything from Ian Gallagher other than the 9 inches in his pants. It was just sex. Orgasms and sweaty bodies. Strictly dick. Fuckin’ without the talkin’. Working out helped suppress some of those thoughts for a while.

Until Ian’s visit to juvie naturally screwed up his entire progress and he could hardly keep his smile from showing through the steam bubbling up inside of him, clearly affecting his mental abilities. And then the bastard even dared to show up with Mandy as he was being released like he was being subtle or something, so of course, not even 6 hours later, they were at it again as if no time at all had passed. Everything slid smoothly back into place, no pun intended. Ian even got him a job, which came with the added benefit of very frequent and satisfying sex. It also included a lot of chit chat to pass the time spent not-fucking with the unfortunate side-effect of actually getting to know more about Gallagher than how his dick felt inside of him. The formerly shorter-than-him, incredibly ambitious yet stupidly soft army officer wannabe teenager seemed to be growing up and working extremely hard to get out of the shithole that was the Southside. It was strangely alluring, seeing someone close to him make something of themselves even if he didn’t agree with volunteering to be blown up for someone else’s war. His personal motto had always been ‘fucked for life’, but recently it had been looking up, so maybe there was a chance. Maybe it wouldn’t all be so bad forever. Maybe he could relax and enjoy life a little.

The problem with taking risks was that it became addictive. Their first fuck had turned into a second, third, tenth. They were getting the hang of where and when to get at it. He wasn’t thinking about feelings, about the ‘what if’s and the ‘maybe’s: he had enough on his plate as it was without that mushy shit. But after Mickey had stopped counting the number of times they fucked, his skin would flare up just thinking of Ian’s hands on his waist, he craved Ian’s hot breath on his neck, Ian’s sweaty forehead pressed against his back because, of course, they weren’t gonna start doing gay shit like kissing and that was the closest thing Mickey allowed Ian to do when they fucked. Ian’s presence became a constant itch Mickey needed to satisfy, and the risk of it all only heightened the reward, that short moment of ecstasy and peace until life came crashing in again.

Specifically until the Frank situation made it all come crashing down, and Mickey panicked. He had allowed himself to lower his guard and he should have learned from the last time someone walked in on them in the Kash & Grab, though he clearly hadn’t. For a moment, a flare of fear had him genuinely considering killing Frank just to get rid of the problem altogether in order to protect what he had going on, but he knew Ian wouldn’t want that despite his crappy relationship with his father: his puppy eyes begging him not to had told him enough. So to compensate for not going against Ian’s wishes, Mickey decided to take a different part of the issue out of the equation instead. Himself.

Juvie again. Still no big deal: it was the Southside with different players in similar roles, except with regular feeding times and only a gym to distract him from life’s daily boredom instead of a redhead with a raging libido. All the mental downtime gave him space to breathe, to periodically douse the smoldering coals inside of him with a bit of realism  so he could make it through another week or so by cooling off from the heat flash with green eyes that had managed to get under his skin. His calm and steady demeanour slowly came back to him, the cold inside returning to provide him with a clear view of his life and prospects, or lack thereof. Time came and went, life went on and on, and nothing really changed.

Yet another release from juvie, yet another continuation of life as if nothing had changed, except for the fact that Gallagher had grown even taller and looked fucking amazing in those camo pants. Mickey fell back into his familiar role and did what he always did: keep the Milkovich name alive, fuck Gallagher, lowkey make sure Mandy is okay, fuck Gallagher, be bored out of his skull until he got to be fucked by that fucking Firecrotch. Once Mickey started investing actual time and energy into Ian, it seemed like all Ian wanted was more, more often, more intensely, bigger and better and deeper. Ian was a black hole for affection, sucking in everything Mickey could scrape together to give him and always wanting more, and Mickey, for once in his life, willingly gave someone else what they wanted from him. He kissed Ian.

Apparently, redheads really do suck out your soul.

He felt something stirring, soft rays of redheaded sunshine thawing the winter he had fostered inside, bringing parts of himself out of his own carefully constructed hibernation, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. The constant urge to push it all back down was slowly withering away with soft stolen touches, stupid inside jokes and the glorious sound of Ian’s laughter, freely given. The grayscale within which Mickey viewed his life had found itself with splashes of color around the edges overnight. They confused him, the alterations to the reality he thought he had set in stone by means of his birth, subsequent circumstances, and conscious decisions. But suddenly, that reality turned a smidge to the left, making him feel unstable and insecure, bringing unrealistic dreams and fantasies to his thoughts at night. There was a constant threat in the air because he had been given something to lose, he had been made to care. Ian had brought him the sun, but because of his light, all of Mickey’s shadows seemed darker. And one particular shadow appeared to dominate them all.

He felt conflicted, fighting for an urge he didn’t understand but which he knew would bring him back into the dark waters he had fought so hard to escape. Gallagher was waiting for him on the other side of that pond, telling him that all he had to do was jump in and swim, just wade through the water until it reached his neck and hope the next step forward wouldn’t slowly drown him. But he couldn’t swim, had never learned how to, had never had anyone patient enough to show him and help him if he couldn’t do it right the first time. He had not come from a loving home, and though he felt a certain degree of affection for his siblings, he wouldn’t mind going without seeing his brothers for a prolonged period of time. Mandy was the only one he truly trusted, but that didn’t mean that he was going to blurt out how he fucking felt every minute, even to her. Ian’s requests for affection and love were like a foreign language to him, one he was apparently meant to have learned but had never fully grasped. Yet they persisted, communicating with actions and gestures because words meant one thing to the one but something completely different to the other. Feelings were hurt, fights were instigated, the makeup sex was fantastic, and life went on. The smouldering coals in Mickey’s abdomen were always present, but the heat no longer bothered him, so he left it alone, hoping that it would stay as it was, not wanting it to complicate his life any further than it already had. Because life was good! Well, life was… better than before, which was good. Life had become livable, and he liked it that way. Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

During what Ian had jokingly called a sleepover, and with a massive amount of fluttering of what he refused to call butterflies in his stomach, Mickey walked to Ian with his Ben Wa beads in hand. His face was slowly heating up as Ian examined them, and the rest of his body followed as Ian looked from him to the beads before jokingly placing them in front of his neck. He licked his lips and looked at the beads instead of Ian as he explained their purpose, his voice unconsciously dropping an octave. Ian’s hands stopped mid-examination and tipped his head to the side before an insufferable grin spread across his face as usual, and Mickey felt the tension bleed out of his back, replaced by a heat radiating through his chest. He laughed away the last slivers of insecurity he felt as Ian tossed the beads on the couch to be used later and turned around to face the couch, reminding Ian to go easy on the injured cheek. The fun didn’t last more than a handful of thrusts before the front door opened and the light of Mickey’s life was blocked out by his biggest shadow. Ian pulled out of him, cursing, and frantically jumped into his shorts, hoping to be able to run out before Terry came too close and started landing punches.

From there on, it all happened really fast, too fast, but at the same time, his mind felt like a high-speed camera, slowing everything down from frame to frame and making sure he didn’t miss a single moment.

The front door slammed closed and Mickey got his first good look at Terry’s red flushed face, his flared nostrils, the veins in his neck straining against his skin. Mickey could see him moving forward towards Ian, yelling something about Mandy, and he knew what was going to happen next. He knew what Terry was capable of. He knew exactly what damage his hands had done to others for lesser crimes. And he knew how high up in his list of priorities it was to rid the world of fags. One glance at Ian’s face showed that Ian knew the exact same thing.

He pulled on his own pants as he futilely yelled at his dad to stop, all of his deepest fears suddenly flashing in front of his eyes: Ian hurt, Ian shot, Ian dead, Ian gone. The damage his father would eventually do to him was irrelevant, he had dealt with that his entire life, but the mere thought of Ian not being around anymore, never hearing his laugh again, never seeing him smile, never again waking up to find Ian subtly trying to smell his neck like a freak, never again having Ian’s hot body pressed against his back and his arm clutching his waist, never again, never, no--

As he took a step forward to jump on his dad’s back or to pull him off Ian, his entire body went ice cold and rigid before flaring up as a scorching heat traveled down from his brain through every cell in his body, seizing up his muscles as everything went red, blue, black. His lungs melted into his stomach, which burned through his intestines and flared out to consume the rest of his organs and muscles. His bones crumbled to ash and his knees hit the floor as he lost all control over his body. He could feel himself topple sideways, and though he knew he was still facing Ian, he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but the pain of his body being seared from the inside out.

A very familiar voice screamed, but his ears and eyes and head wouldn’t function right as every sound was magnified to the point that he couldn’t distinguish his heartbeat from the train passing by. His vision momentarily returned in black and white, right before every color of the rainbow was torched into his skull at the same time as the interior of his body was rebuilt using coals and gasoline and magma. His very soul was lit up with fireworks, pieces being burned away as others were reconstructed and soldered together. He tried to scream, but his throat had not reformed yet, his voice was a distant memory, words no more than a vague concept in a brain that was too busy rewiring itself to deal with such primitive urges. Sharp nails were ripping open the skin on his back, starting from his spine and moving slowly outward, curling around his ribs and belly, extending to his arms and the back of his thighs while thick acid replaced the blood in his veins, lazily cauterizing whatever filthy humanity was left inside of him.

Another wet thud registered somewhere during the rewiring, and he felt a trickle of ice running along his spine until the heat absorbed it again, but the damage had been done. A part of him had woken up, a part of Mickey Milkovich was still in control of his brain, albeit only of a tiny portion. There was something he was meant to do, something was happening to a part of him, he had to protect--

And everything stopped.

The world went eerily quiet as time stood still and the fire in his core abruptly ceased trying to rip his body apart, just hovering in place, waiting for something to trigger it again. Mickey had the distinct feeling that something inside of him was listening to his thoughts, like a puppy waiting to be told what trick to perform so it could get a treat. The absence of pain completely threw off his train of thought and he blinked, finally regaining control of his eyes and understanding the image he was looking at from his position on the floor as his vision got progressively less fuzzy.

The large body of his father was pushing Ian’s shoulder into the cushions of the couch with his left hand as his right was raised in a bloodied fist, aimed for Ian’s face. Said face was contorted in pain, mouth bleeding and open in a defiant scream, equal parts anger and fear burning in Ian’s bulging eyes as a shallow cut above his right eye bled profusely down his face. Ian had one hand around Terry’s neck as the other tried to protect his face, and Mickey could see the wings of Ian’s Eagle spirit animal spread out over his freckled arms and hands, giving Ian more strength in his arms to hold Terry at a distance. But Mickey knew from experience that Terry was stronger and far more experienced in fighting dirty than Ian's ROTC training and lighter body mass could handle. Terry’s Mastiff spirit animal wasn't visible to him, but he felt like he could hear it, like it had gone completely rabid again, adding to the brute force that Terry had fostered over the years. Terry's tactical positioning made it so that Ian couldn't put his weight into a counter-punch, couldn't do much more than defend himself and try to keep Terry away. The Mastiff would feast on feathers if his father wasn’t stopped. Ian could be dead in seconds if his father wasn't stopped. He would lose Ian forever if his father wasn't--

A flash of heat, a flip of a switch, and time sped up again. The fire returned in a tidal wave, encompassing his whole body like a cocoon, but it no longer felt like it was trying to absorb him as a whole. Instead, the magma returned strength to his spine and mended his skin and bones. The fiery death-grip on his muscles was released and oxygen was allowed back into his lungs. Mickey grunted as he rolled onto his hands, hoping to catch his breath for a single second before having to join the fight for Ian’s life.

As he inhaled, his body was pushed up onto his knees and then his feet, pulled backwards and upwards by a warm, scratchy feeling on his spine. Strange thoughts and black and white images were flowing through Mickey's mind, and he suddenly felt indescribably sleepy, as if some part of his brain was sucking out his energy and putting the rest to bed. He was floating somewhere inside his body, looking without seeing, touching without feeling, thinking without being able to control anything around him. The disconnect from his physical body felt like he was walking through slimy water with soft tendrils tugging at his legs to keep him from going too far. And it was hot, it was so excruciatingly hot inside his chest that he should be dripping with sweat, or at the very least feel his skin burning up. But his skin was dry, and numb, and very far away.

Tenderly, Mickey could feel soft claws wrapping themselves around his arms and legs, gently pulling him back inside the slimy water, inside the warm cocoon where he would be safe, just in front of the dark parts of his mind where he had never been before. He tried to struggle, soft pulses of cold air escaping his mouth as he screamed in frustration, but the heat easily dispelled the little waves he made, making him tired and sleepy the harder he fought. Between one heartbeat and the next, his eyes fluttered closed against his will as the claws let him fall backward, softly landing on something feathery and sharp, but instinctively familiar.

As Mickey closed his eyes, it ruffled its dark-green scales and opened theirs.

Its vision focused on the strange red and orange shapes around it, heat patches slowly melting into a full spectrum of colors to accommodate the host. Its sense of smell had to filter through the plethora of triggers it was bombarded with until it recognized the scent of blood and turned towards it like a shark. Ian, the host’s memories provided. _The Mate_ , it translated to itself, and red and gold sparks filled its vision as heat slid down its arms and into its fingers. It had to save the Mate from the Beast, stop the Beast from killing.

The body took a step forward, and it almost lost its balance and pitched sideways while trying to figure out how to walk on two legs. A catalog of memories of Mickey crawling, walking, running running running immediately sped by and were gone, and the second step was much more accurate, the third perfect. The shoulders rolled back one by one, loosening up the body as it moved forward towards the fighting animals. It arched its back a little, stretching the arms to feel their reach, filling its little host with the strength it had built up inside, the power it had created by rebuilding the inside in its most effective and efficient image, or at least partially until it had time to finish the rest.

The Beast growled at the Mate in a tongue that was not its own, but it didn't seem important to filter through the host's memories to figure out what the individual sounds meant when it could deduce the meaning from the tone itself; Mate, you are going to die. Part of it felt like watching the Beast work; it had always been impaired by its host's filter, always having fear and anger block out the best parts. But this was not the time. The Mate would die and the host would go cold again, and it was so drearily boring to be forcefully hibernating. Furthermore, the host needed the Mate to live to feel alive, and _it_ needed the host to want to be alive to live. So the Beast had to be stopped.

The Beast brought more pain to the Mate, blood spraying from the Mate’s nose, and something inside of it started bubbling, a mixture or cold and heat creating friction to the point that the steam came flowing out of its nose as it exhaled. It remembered fighting the Beast once before, long before the little host had been ready to receive its full form. It had used more fire than his body could handle at that time, wiping him out for a little while afterward. But it couldn't let his kitten's spirit be destroyed before she had the chance to wreak havoc. She was such a beautiful grey hunter, and the host loved her, so it had done what was necessary to protect her. Protecting what the host loved was an easy enough method in which to keep the host happy and keeping him from going back into that dreaded cold, so it gladly performed those spiritual duties.

The Mate's feathers were gradually bending, nearing their breaking point, and more blood splattered over them as the Eagle spirit was failing to protect its host from the Beast, who had its bloody paw raised again. Icy thoughts pushed through its heated core, and feelings of fear and anger and love were wrestling to regain control over the host’s mind and body, but with a growl, it pushed a wave of power through its mind, shaking off the host’s weak intrusion. It had no time to let the host decide on a course of action, to share their body and soul to the point where the host’s input could benefit them both. Right now was time for ruthless action. It was time to play.

Walking forward, it stretched out its arms to bring out its talons, light blue and sizzling at the tips, roaring once to get the Beast’s attention. Cold red eyes turned towards it and the Beast bared its teeth at it in a clear sign of its displeasure at being interrupted. It took a moment to appreciate that both father and son had all-encompassing spirit animals, a hereditary condition where their souls, and as a consequence, their spirit animals, were so vast that the host was sometimes too weak to contain it in moments of extreme fear or anger. Though it had contained itself within the boundaries it had learned from being within its host, the Beast looked like it had lost all humanity, like it had finally snapped and had absorbed all of its host, ready to kill anything in its sight.

The Beast paused, briefly hesitating between finishing off the Mate and attacking the new player in the game, and in its moment of hesitation, it lifted itself up and flew forward, grabbing the Beast by the neck, flinging it off the Mate and into the kitchen counter. The smell of burned skin dissipated, and an angry growl came from behind the couch as the Beast hit the floor. It knew it should follow its prey and finish off the Beast as soon as possible, but it felt annoyingly compelled to check up on the Mate, to see if he was alive and well. Taking its eyes off the Beast, it stared at the Mate, trying to catalogue his injuries against what it knew his host has inflicted on others, or had inflicted on him, and survived. His host was exceptionally tough, even without its help or healing, but whatever the Mate had sustained didn’t seem life-threatening.

The sound of fighting dogs came from behind the couch and it turned around just in time to find that the Beast’s host had taken control of its body again, holding himself up with one hand on the back of the couch as the other covered its neck where it had been burned by its talons. Without the Beast in control, it could easily take its father’s body alone, so it retracted its talons so it wouldn’t accidentally burn the Mate, folding its wings back into the body to save its energy.

The Mate moaned in pain, and when it instinctively turned around to look at him, the Mate was staring with two big, yellow eyes at the Beast’s host, his face white, his mouth hanging open, forehead frowned. It tried to reconcile the Mate’s facial expression with its host’s memories when the facial expression changed, a spasm running through the Mate’s body as his Eagle spread all over his chest, preparing to defend itself from imminent danger. The Eagle’s reaction made it instinctively shift in front of the Mate as it turned to face the Beast’s host, and as it did, it heard a click. A short and loud booming sound followed, and its body wavered backward from the force of something hitting its shoulder, a sharp pain suddenly spreading from the spot as the back of its knees hit the couch.

The pain immediately woke up the host, ripping him out of his hibernation, but it tried to keep him under control as it slowly turned to look at the blood spilling from a tear in its shoulder, unsure how to proceed when a cold feeling suddenly swirled around the place of impact, numbing the pain before it spread through the rest of its body. It could hear the Mate yell, and a second click went off. The explosion that followed caused it to bend over forward as it felt more pain spread through the stomach. Confusion swirled through its thoughts at the pain that had come out of nowhere, and suddenly, Mickey’s memories flashed in front of its eyes to explain what was happening and what their body was feeling, what had to be done in order to temporarily stop the wound from bleeding so they could finish the fight. The host was furious, gathering strength from the heat and the cold alike, and it decided that maybe it was better to let the true son battle the human father now that the Beast had been dispelled. It let the cold sweep through their mind, granting the host the reins over its power, its strength, its knowledge. Uncontrolled heat blazed through the body as he tried to control that power, and the body screamed as both their mind and soul felt the pain spreading through them. It directed the heat to the two places of impact and retracting back into the darkness to heal as the host took back control of the body.

Its dark-green scales rustled softly against its back as it blinked, and Mickey opened his blue eyes.

The primary purpose of using a gun was to inflict damage from a safe distance. Mickey slowly straightened up halfway, still bent over and looking as weak as he could so as not to provoke Terry into firing off another round into his slowly healing body before he could figure out how to use whatever it was that had woken up inside of him to protect himself and Ian. Terry was standing behind the couch, right hand extended in front of him, a smoking gun still aimed in Mickey’s general direction as he was holding his neck with his left hand. His gun hand was softly shaking, but whether in fear or anger Mickey couldn’t tell from his father’s expression. He suspected it was a bit of both, considering that Terry had his beast of a spirit animal overpower his body and his son burn his neck with his bare hands. When Mickey tentatively opened his mouth to speak, Terry immediately straightened up, the tremor in his hand disappearing as he was filled with new resolve.

Mickey grimaced and closed his mouth, slowly running out of options. Talking was no use, Terry was too far away for Mickey to physically attack without getting hit, and running away meant that Ian was left open and unprotected on the couch. Images flashed in front of his eyes, less intrusive than before, right before his body slowly heated up again. Mickey was shown how to unfold wings, how to utilize heat waves and the extent of damage his talons could inflict. The images explained how much damage a wing and his scales could withstand, how to use his heat vision and how to absorb another’s heat to the point of death. Something in the back of his mind saw a solution, a loophole he could use, but his brain was too slow to pinpoint which it was before Terry started talking. He could feel scales covering his skin as his father’s voice got louder and more confident, could sense the scales overlapping so the next bullet wouldn’t pass through their skin again. As he stared into his father’s eyes, he felt his soul balancing out his body, supporting one another instead of fighting for control, bringing his whole being into an equilibrium he hadn’t known he had been missing all his life. Terry’s words didn’t register in his mind because his mind was translating talons into puncture wounds, wingspan into distance, heat spots into tactics. Terry’s eyes flickered to Ian, and Mickey waited for his father to descend into anger again, spit flying from his mouth as he spoke, the Beast slowly rising up again now that Terry was ready to go for round two.

But his father was clever. Terry hadn’t survived years in prison and decades on the street by being stupid and overly reckless when he was sober. Mickey knew that Terry wouldn’t come close again, not wanting to risk getting burned again, and would shoot him instead. Terry only needed his Beast to straighten his spine and give him strength, and that moment was almost there.

Mickey straightened up, and he could feel a ray of sunshine escaping through a tear in the curtains, hitting him in the bare chest. The room slowly turned a dark green as his skin hardened. Terry’s eyes widened and the Beast raised its hackles. Mickey lifted his arm at the third click, and he could hear Ian yell something as time slowed down around him. The warmth spread through his body as his vision switched to detect only heat. He could see the outline of his father’s body, his arm, his hand holding a warm metallic object. Within the gun, a spark was slowly forming, and Mickey could feel his soul smiling at it appreciatively, at the heat and destruction such a little spark could create. Mickey closed his eyes as it felt the connection with the spark and the inner heat that it was made of, fire and pain and love and embers. Then it opened its eyes and looked at the beginning of a flame, at the heat surrounding it, at the destruction that would follow it. And it took it all.

It reached out its hand and bled the metal dry, bled it cold to its very core, too cold for the bullet to ignite and be fired off. Its scales rustled a little as it walked, and another step closer made it easier to inhale the heat coming off in waves from the body in front of it, to absorb all that it was owed, all that life needed to survive. Another step, and the body had fallen behind the couch again, but it wasn’t done with it yet, hadn’t finished feeding off the body heat that the Beast was trying to provide to the host, trying to keep it alive. It dug its talons into the couch that stood between them and flung it aside, the resounding crash and destruction an unimportant side note. Going down on its knees, it blinked slowly as it assessed the body in front of it, twisting and turning in agony, hands formed into claws that were trying to crawl their way away from it on trembling hands and knees. The Beast had taken over, providing the last barrier of protection to the host’s body, fulfilling its spiritual duty as it whined in pain from the cold.

The host had provided it with excellent information, technical details on the workings of the guns used to hurt it, and a very creative way of using its connection with heat to freeze instead of burn. The trick had stopped it from getting hurt again, but it knew of better ways to permanently defeat opponents. It reached out its hand and placed it on the Beast’s back, right above the heart, and _inhaled_. The Beast thrashed and snarled and howled, but none of that mattered as it closed its eyes to appreciate the pleasure of taking every last wave of heat coming from it. The movement under its hand dwindled down, and it suddenly felt a soft, warm hand on its injured shoulder. Instinctively, its body recognized the hand as another source of heat and prepared itself to absorb that heat as well once it was done with the Beast.

“Mickey?”

Turning its head in horror at the sound of the Mate’s voice, it stupidly blinked at the Mate’s hand on its shoulder, at the long, freckled white fingers that it loved so much, at the Eagle staring at it suspiciously from his forearm. Completely disregarding the soft moaning coming from the body in front of him, the realization hit it that it could have taken the Mate’s life force from him as well. It abruptly reined in the tendrils of cold instinctively spreading to absorb the Mate’s body heat on his shoulders, breaking its hold on the heat waves in the room, flashing from warm to burning hot. Ian snatched his hand back with a grimace and took a few steps back, and the pain on Ian’s face shot straight through its heart. It deliberately shut its eyes and Mickey came up, gasping for air.

He ripped his hand off his father’s back, scrambling backward on his butt to get as far away from Terry as he could. His arms were on fire but his head was ice cold and his heart sped up, his body confused at the sudden changes in temperature and trying to make up for it. Ian was still standing a few steps away from Terry, one hand cradling the other. He looked from him to his father and back before slowly walking to Terry’s body and bending down to touch it. His eyes went wide and he retracted his hand quickly as if he had burned it again and straightened up quickly to run to Mickey’s bedroom. Mickey stared at his father, at the body lying motionless on the floor. He didn’t know what to do, what to think, what to believe of what he had seen, what he had done. He could hear Ian talking to someone in urgent tones as he slowly lifted his hands to his face, not knowing what to expect. Both hands were clean, not a single drop of blood or streak of dirt to be found. He turned his hands inward and lifted his arms, trying to find a scratch on him when he realized he had none. No scratches. He twisted around to look at his stomach. No bullet wounds. He turned to look at stab wound below his ribs that he had from when he was 9. No scar. He slowly turned his hands palm-side out and gazed at his knuckles. They were blank, clean, clear of the ink he had someone put there half a decade ago. There were no freckles on his hands, no birthmarks, no marks at all to indicate that he had once been injured somewhere. His skin had been cleansed, healed to an extreme extent, all impurities burned away. He wondered if that was the same for his organs, if his lungs were now young and clean instead of coated with the tar he had put there himself.

His silent reverie was abruptly interrupted by the sound of Terry coughing wetly, and Mickey’s eyesight instinctively flashed to heat detection. Tiny waves of warmth were spreading through Terry’s body in time with what looked like a very weak heartbeat. Ian came running out of Mickey’s bedroom, cellphone still to his ear and calmly yet firmly speaking to someone on the line. He dragged a bunch of blankets and towels with him that he dumped on Terry’s body before walking into Terry’s bedroom. A few seconds later, Ian threw another armful of random clothes and towels on Terry’s body before hanging up the phone and walking back into Mickey’s room. He emerged with two shirts and two pairs of pants in his hands and threw one of each to Mickey before putting on his own. Still sitting on the floor, Mickey shimmied into the clothes slowly as Ian walked to the bathroom, still gazing at the little ball of heat that represented his father. He had almost killed him. He had almost literally sucked the life out of him, and he didn’t know how he felt about not having succeeded. Would Mandy have done it if she had been given the chance? Would Ian have? Would _he_ have, before he knew that it was actually an option?

What felt like an eternity went by before Mickey’s thoughts were once again rudely interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door. A protective wave of heat flowed down Mickey’s arms and he thought he could see a light green shine underneath his skin before it was gone a heartbeat later. Ian yelled something from the bathroom and ran to the front door while drying his clean face on a towel, the blood gone and the wound above his eye already scabbing over. He swung open the front door to two familiar-looking policemen and a bored EMT whom he guided to Terry’s unmoving body. Ian pointed at the gun next to Terry’s body, and from there the ball started rolling pretty quickly. One of the policemen bagged the gun, another EMT entered the room with a stretcher, and Terry was hoisted onto it, wrapped in a weird blanket and strapped down. Ian was constantly talking and explaining and repeating himself to everyone, but nobody asked Mickey anything, no one even glanced at him as he sat on the floor, staring at a bunch of blankets and clothes on the floor. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink if he didn’t have to. He just sat there, waiting, staring.

Time went by and the people were gone and Ian had dragged and pushed and pulled the couch back into its original position and he was now… somewhere, around, alive and kicking and banged up a little but otherwise okay. The sun went down and there was a big hole in the wall, but nobody said anything about it because nobody cared about yet another battle scar to the house. Before going quietly catatonic, Mickey had checked up on Ian when everyone had left, asked him if he was okay, if his Eagle was okay, if he was _really_ okay. Ian had nodded, smiled until his split lip pulled and then grimaced. He had sat down next to Mickey and held his hand, leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his heat for a few minutes. Mickey had felt at peace with Ian by his side, balanced and grounded, his arm curved naturally around Ian’s waist as they just sat there in silence. He could feel his body grow slightly warmer where Ian was touching him, as if his body was trying to transfer some calming warmth into Ian’s body, a discreet transfer of energy. Ian’s Eagle would occasionally walk or fly by on his arm or leg, not quite as calm as its host yet after having been attacked, still patrolling Ian’s body to make sure there was no more unforeseen danger nearby.

Eventually, and far too soon to Mickey’s liking, Ian sighed happily and slowly extracted himself from Mickey’s arm, bending over to kiss Mickey softly on the lips before moving towards the kitchen. From the floor, Mickey could see Ian’s red hair move back and forth in the kitchen, and time faded in and out as he slowly disconnected from the real world and into his own mind, reflecting on what had happened and what was probably still to come. He knew Terry’s spirit animal was gone, dead, absorbed or whatever. When it was dormant, the Mastiff was always visible on Terry’s back, and it hadn’t been there when the EMTs had taken all the towels and clothes off of Terry’s body. The Mastiff also hadn’t been visible on the front of his body, and Mickey couldn’t remember the last time the Mastiff had appeared on Terry’s legs. He knew, he just _knew_ it was gone. He just didn’t know how he felt about it.

His mind thought back on the news reports Craig and him had always been excited about, those depicting the strange tales of how a spirit animal had taken over a host’s body in order to save it. Those instances weren’t considered particularly uncommon, especially in moments of extreme danger, considering that they were the body’s last defense before death; water-related spirit animals were very well-known for saving their hosts from drowning by allowing them to breathe underwater. But he couldn’t recall anything about a spirit animal that could change their host’s body permanently. He had never heard about those that could flip their host’s control over their body on and off like his had done. And he hadn’t heard anything about the ones that could manipulate their powers outside of the host’s body.

Mickey had already calculated how far away all the lethal weapons were, where he could find the best knife to do the job now that he knew that guns would no longer work on himself. He was waiting for his body to heat up, for his spirit animal to take over his mind like it had done twice already, for him to go completely rabid like Terry had, for him to hurt Ian--

A sharp pain shot through his arm, and Mickey hissed as the red outline of a whip mark spread over his bicep before it dissolved back into his scarless, woundless, flawless skin. As he rubbed the spot on his perfectly unmarked arm, he had the distinct feeling that something was looking at him from within the darkness of his soul, staring at him with a mockingly raised eyebrow and an utterly unimpressed gaze in its eyes. He opened his mouth to argue with his spirit animal when he realized that he’d be talking to himself, and shut his mouth again. So maybe not Ian. A soft feeling of adoration spread through Mickey’s body, comparable to butterflies in his stomach except these butterflies were big, indestructible and a bit unpleasant. Several images of Ian smiling down at him, Ian laughing about a stupid pun he himself had made, Ian passionately talking about some project, Ian moaning, _Ian_ flickered before his eyes as a soothing warmth curled around his cold thoughts, slowly bringing him back to body temperature. _Mate_ , floated into his thoughts, and it smiled, and Mickey smiled in return. _Mate_ , he repeated, rolling the word around in his head until they had both designated the same definition to the word. Lover. Partner. Family. _Mate._

A gentle and warm push in his back made Mickey frown and go completely still, waiting for the next shoe to drop, but nothing else seemed to happen, his mind still in his control and his body the same as it had felt before except for the visible lack of scars. He blinked once, twice, three times, and nothing changed except for the distant sound of a mocking chuckle in the back of his head. He slowly got up, his butt tingling as blood rushed back into it after sitting on the floor for too long. Rubbing his hands down his pants a few times, he slowly walked towards the kitchen. He worried his lip as he watched his favorite redhead from a safe distance, fiddling with a container of clumped salt over a pot of hot water with an open box of mac & cheese on the counter.

Nausea was creeping up his throat as he tried to push down the irrational desire to turn around and walk out the door. Ian was going to walk away, he just knew it. Ian was going to be nice about it because Mickey had proven to be capable of almost fucking kill a person with his bare hands so Ian was going to be sensible and take the smart route and walk away. He flexed his fingers and clasped his hands together, then released them and wiped the clamminess off his hands onto his shirt. He was just like his father, he was _exactly_ like his father, he couldn’t even control himself, how was Ian supposed to trust him after this? Mickey’s heart sped up and he could feel sweat slowly sliding down his back and into his shirt. His chin lowered to his chest as he looked down at his feet, inhaling through his mouth to get more oxygen, his brain feeling like it was freezing inside, his eyes threatening to well up with tears he didn’t want to shed. The best idea was to break up with Ian right then and there, spare him the drama and the heartache. A painful lump was rising up his throat from his stomach but his mouth was too dry to swallow it back down. Just let Ian go so he can find someone better, someone safer, someone without a rabid father willing to shoot his own son, twice. Someone who wouldn’t maybe, accidentally, one day, absorb his body heat in a moment of passion and kill him. Someone that wasn’t him. The cold swirling around his brain and spine was bringing on a sharp headache, tensing up his neck muscles as he struggled to breathe, to breathe in… and breathe out… slowly, just breathe

“--in, you’re doing great Mick, aaand breathe out…”

Mickey jerked his head back up and immediately choked on air, bending over again to cough up a lung for having done its job a little too well. He had been so far gone into his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Ian standing in front of him, softly encouraging him away from a panic attack. Ian stepped back, dish towel on his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together as he regarded Mickey calmly, waiting for him to be okay again.

Mickey stared into the green eyes he had so painstakingly learned to care for, fire and ice fluttering around in his stomach as he worked up the courage to say the words, just say it, get it over with, make him leave already. From the corner of his eye, he could see movement on Ian’s forearm, his Eagle looking at him, curious, head slanted as if waiting for something to happen, checking if he was meant to attack someone or not. Mickey worried his lip again, dropped his gaze to the floor again, taking a deep breath to open his mouth so he could do what was right when he saw Ian’s feet come closer. Ian’s index finger gently pushed his chin upward until Mickey was looking into Ian’s eyes, Ian’s hand stroking down his neck to lay down on his shoulder. Green eyes were searching for something, for someone, for an answer to a question Mickey didn't know, and Ian’s mouth slowly spread into a smile a heartbeat later, moving in even closer, close enough for their noses to touch, for them to share the same breath.

Mickey kept his eyes open for as long as he could even as his body reacted to the proximity of Ian’s. Ian’s hand slowly stroked down his arm and ended up on his waist before moving to the small of his back as he pressed Mickey in closer. Mickey’s breathing accelerated, the sound of blood roaring in his ears as his heart pounded in his chest while Ian’s other hand gently caressed the soft hair at the top of his neck. He should stop. He should push Ian away and stop and just… he should…

Ian’s face moved to the side of Mickey’s, cheek brushing cheek, Ian’s warm breath tickling Mickey’s neck. Ian bent down to kiss the space where Mickey’s neck and shoulder met, and Mickey’s eyes fluttered shut, rational thoughts of letting Ian go disappearing like weed at a street party. Adrenaline and lust were pumping through his veins, heat rapidly rising to his brain and it was all he could do not to fully let go, to just relax and fall backward into the darkness of his mind, have the more primal part of him take over. Just the thought of his spirit animal being near Ian brought a spike of cold through the heat, the sudden change waking him up and forcing his eyes open. Mickey instinctively tried to take a step back, but Ian’s grip on his neck and lower back kept him in place, a soft growl and sharp nip in his neck indicating that Ian was not happy with Mickey trying to move away from him. Ian waited a heartbeat and gave Mickey a little space to breathe as he softly kissed his way from Mickey’s neck to his cheek, his hands moving to take Mickey’s hands into his, softly stroking the back of his hands. A last kiss on his nose and a small step back brought them face to face once more, green eyes smiling confidently into his hesitant blue ones. Mickey exhaled slowly, trying to bring his heart back from the edge of bursting at the adoring look in Ian’s eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Mick.”

Ian’s calm voice snapped him out of his trance, a cold shiver shooting up his spine.

“You don’t know that,” he sneered, fear and doubt making his voice harsher than he had meant as he let go of Ian’s hands and turned his back to him, putting more distance between them. Ian snickered, not sounding at all concerned.

“Except I do,” he said, casually walking to the stove and turning off the burners, moving slowly so as not to set off anything predatory inside of Mickey, “it won’t hurt me.”

Mickey looked at the front door again as he chewed on his bottom lip, wondering if leaving would be easier than trying to force the impossible words out of his mouth. Maybe Ian would understand. Maybe he would even get the point and just never come back. All he had to do was leave.

“Mickey, would you just... _shut_ up!”

Mickey’s eyebrows flew up, and as he vaguely wondered if he had said something out loud, he turned back around to face Ian, forcing himself to stay as calm as Ian was. But Ian no longer looked calm, quite the contrary: his Eagle was aggressively circling his neck and Ian’s eyes were blazing with a little more yellow than green, his shoulders squared as he pulled himself to full length, his body taking on a defensive positioning. Mickey could almost see two dark wings spreading out behind him, blocking the sunlight coming through the slits in the curtains.

“You are not leaving, Mikhailo Milkovich. I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re _not_ running away like some sad little puppy.”

The dog reference felt like a kick to the gut and the fine hair at the nape of his neck stood up at the aggression in Ian’s voice. His gut instinct to fight Ian on the issue was so overwhelming that he could taste blood in his mouth from unconsciously biting his tongue. Ian slowly circled around him, deliberately stopping in the only path to the front door, cornering Mickey, crowding him into a small space with his height and steadily darkening aura. He flashed him a smile, but there was no love in it, no mirth, just contempt and defiance.

“Oh, come on, you little baby. You can’t leave, I’m in your way, look!” Ian laughed mockingly, spreading his arms wide, “what are you going to do? You going to rip out my heart with your talons?” He smacked his chest with his hand, hard, and Mickey winced for him, but Ian showed no pain on his face, his eyes only getting more and more yellow.

“What’s it going to be, huh Mick! Will you take me by the neck and suck me cold?”

Ian moved closer, his entire body threatening, the aggression in his demeanour bleeding out of his pores. Mickey could feel his core heating up, and he was waiting for Ian to come too close, for his spiritual protector to come out and strike the redhead down, for the soft 'I told you so' he would say before walking out the front door and never seeing Ian again. He stood rooted to the spot, unsure of how far he could go without losing control.

“Fucking _say something,_ Mick! Anything!” Ian took a step closer, and Mickey took a step back only to end up with his back against the wall, “Prove it, prove that you’ll hurt me! Fucking fight me already!”

Ian’s face was getting dangerously close, and Mickey could almost taste the sweat on Ian’s forehead, the pheromones drifting off him in waves, the smell of the wind and mountains mixed with Ian’s own musky scent. He kept still, tried not to blink, tried to breathe in a normal pattern while his back was burning up, his heart going at a mile a minute and his clammy hands clutching at the cool wall behind him for some semblance of support.

Ian’s voice dropped as he bared his teeth at Mickey, black pupils now drowning out a yellow iris, the soft outline of feathers connecting the dots of the freckles on his face as anger was causing Ian’s control over his Eagle to wane.

“Do you really think you scare me, Mickey,” hot air rushed down Mickey’s neck as Ian whispered in his ear, “do you really think that just because you have a powerful spirit animal, that I’d walk away from you? That I would stop loving you? That you’ll stop loving _me?”_

Ian slammed his flat hands hard into the wall on either side of Mickey’s head, his palms punching through the cheap plaster. Mickey flinched out of reflex, his body flashing red hot, his fingernails extending into talons as he felt magma circling his spine once more. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t hold it back anymore. All of his anxiety and fears, his doubt, his love for Ian was messing with his head and he couldn’t separate Ian’s body language and tone from the words he had spoken. Mickey could feel his eyes rolling back into their sockets as his eyelids closed, the darkness washing over him as he tried to scream, tried to warn himself that Ian wasn’t a danger, wasn’t the enemy, didn’t need to be hurt or killed or eliminated in any way. The darkness roared back, its response pulsing through Mickey’s soul like a giant hiccup before a large and dark projectile flew past his disconnected soul and into the light, leaving Mickey behind to float around in his own body, powerless as everything around him started heating up. Helpless, he could see his eyes open, feel himself looking at Ian’s black-and-yellow eyes, his bared teeth, the vein protruding from his neck.

It roared as it took a step forward, and Ian instinctively moved back, his hands pulling out of the plaster. Another step forward, and it bared its teeth to match his opponent’s, silver eyes to black-and-yellow, wind and fire circling one another as they hunted for weak spots. It noted that the Mate’s fingers had extended into black talons, and it produced its own as a countermeasure. Mickey wanted it to stop, begged the darkness to make it stop, but the two predators just kept circling, stalking, eyeing each other’s flank. Ian accidentally bumped into the kitchen counter, throwing off his balance for a split second, and Mickey felt the exact moment of joy when it saw Ian’s weak spot and went in for the kill. Ian’s breath exploded out of him as his back was smacked into the counter, and one hand went for Ian’s neck as the other ripped through his shirt with its talons. Mickey yelled into the abyss and tried to retract its talons, take back its hands, remove its teeth from Ian’s neck, its tongue from Ian’s skin--

A deep moan shocked Mickey into silence. As he slowly willed himself into the lighter side of his mind, he could feel its talons softly stroking down Ian’s back, its teeth running down the side of Ian’s neck as the redhead clutched onto its shoulders, his head tilted sideways to give Mickey’s mouth better access. A soft chuckle escaped its mouth as it licked Ian’s neck once more and Mickey saw Ian’s yellow eyes melt back to green before they fluttered shut in pleasure, a hungry and blissful smile spreading across Ian’s face as another deep exhale escaped his lips. Ian’s right hand ran down its back, and Mickey could feel a phantom hand trace the same path on him, his body relaxing into Ian’s familiar touch. He ached to feel Ian’s hands on him, to touch Ian’s face and to have his heavy-lidded green eyes and dilated pupils stare straight into his soul, a faint blush on his freckled cheeks.

A pulsing vibration ran through Mickey’s body that he recognized as laughter coming from very deep down. His spirit animal was mocking him, relishing in the control it had that Mickey didn’t, proving that it was more powerful than its own host. Ian visibly shivered in the face of its power, and Mickey could feel its attention shift to Ian’s lips, warm breath coming from between his slightly parted lips, red and inviting, slowly moving closer.

Something inside of Mickey snapped.

His vision clouded over as a loud guttural roar tore through his body, his rage fanning out into a blizzard of hail and snow through the darkness. His anger fueled his body, his soul, the lightning he created crackling and illuminating the parts of him he didn’t want to see for a split second before they were doused in darkness once more. He willed himself into his corporeal body, willed his fingers to feel, his eyes to see, his lungs to breathe when _he_ told them to breathe. Nothing was going to control him, to make his body act against his will. Nobody was going to force him to endure what he did not want to. And not even his own spirit animal was going to touch Ian without his consent. With his eyes wide open, he charged forward until he could feel the resistance, feel the tendrils tugging on his legs, and then he _pushed._

And all the lights turned on.

Mickey was standing in the kitchen, body pressed against Ian’s, heart pounding loud enough for anyone in a 3-mile radius to hear. He was panting excessively as if he had run a marathon, done a bunch of burpees, got chased by the police and then, for the fun of it, decided to have a throwdown in a hick bar. Turning slightly to move away, Ian clasped his biceps, pulling him back into his space. Eager lips smashed into his with more force than strictly necessary but Mickey could feel Ian smirk against his mouth as he eagerly ran the tip of his tongue against Mickey’s bottom lip. Mickey opened his mouth, gently sucking on Ian’s tongue to invite him in, and Ian breathed out through his nose in a short burst as if he’d been holding his breath until that moment. A hand glided from his bicep to cup the back of his head, the other grabbing him by the waist as Ian held him in place against his body, their tongues teasing each other, slowly circling and sucking, teeth softly grazing against Mickey’s tongue. He felt Ian pull away a little but Mickey pulled him back in, receiving a chuckle for his efforts before Ian’s hand slipped to his lower back. 

He kicked Ian’s legs further apart as his mouth moved from the redhead’s lips to his neck, his leg sliding between Ian’s while he licked a trail upwards, biting the soft skin just underneath his ear. Ian chuckled at Mickey’s rough handling, but the need to touch Ian, to have Ian’s body against his had overpowered all rational thought and discarded all patience, and Mickey moved back to find Ian’s mouth against his once more. Mickey felt Ian’s sharp intake of breath when his hips pushed up against his inner thigh, slowly grinding their rapidly-hardening cocks together through their pants. Ian’s hand circled around his waist to hold him closer, push them harder against each other as they panted into each other’s mouths, the thin layers of clothing taunting them, the friction between them painful but not nearly good enough.

A groan of frustration left the redhead’s mouth when Mickey broke away, just for a second, so he could shuffle backward while pulling Ian by the waist, guiding them out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. He found his way by means of smacking into every wall, chair, and table possible, his room seemingly a mile away by the amount of time it took them to finally reach their destination. Impatiently, Mickey pushed Ian onto his bed before pulling off his own shirt, looking down in time to see Ian bouncing back forward and onto his knees. Ian effortlessly pulled down Mickey’s boxers and pants in one smooth motion and expertly curled his fingers around Mickey’s cock, all the while gauging Mickey’s reactions with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a maddening grin on his kiss-swollen lips.

Mickey’s breath hitched as Ian moved his hand, his grip both snug and feather-light, stroking Mickey into full hardness as his green eyes slowly darkened with lust. Ian’s smile grew even broader and he leaned in closer, close enough for Mickey to feel his warm breath teasing the head of his cock. The anticipation made his skin crawl, but contrary to the display in the kitchen, Ian no longer seemed to be in a hurry; Ian’s warm breath on his cock was taunting him, and he continued his rhythmically pumping back and forth, occasionally adding a little twist at the end. Mickey’s own breath was coming out quick and shallow, eyes fluttering shut periodically to gather some semblance of control over himself, to keep himself from ending their game prematurely as Ian relentlessly kept up his pace.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer and opened his mouth to say something, the hand stopped at the base and a wet, warm tongue swirled around the tip of his cock, shocking Mickey’s heart into overdrive while Ian took his time to slowly explore the sensitive skin. He looked down to find Ian’s eyes almost shut, hooded with lust as his tongue started tracing an invisible line down Mickey’s hard cock, his hand following his tongue and the trail of saliva on the way back up. Ian locked eyes with Mickey, the swelling tip of his cock resting on the tip of Ian’s tongue, mouth wide as his hand moved back down and up to slick up the rest of Mickey’s cock with saliva. The redhead then waited a heartbeat, and another, a smirk forming on his face despite the fact that his mouth was wide open and Mickey’s erection was almost bouncing on his tongue in anticipation, pre-cum dripping off the tip.

Mickey was trying his utmost best just to breathe and not come practically untouched from the filthy look in Ian’s eyes when Ian winked at him, which was all the warning he got before soft, wet lips wrapped around him. Ian slowly swallowed him down, all the way down until the head hit the back of his throat and he gagged a little, leaning back slightly until his throat settled around Mickey’s length, excess saliva dripping down the side of his mouth. Mickey’s hips stuttered involuntarily and his flailing hands found Ian’s head, fingers burrowing in red curls to keep him grounded, tugging lightly. Ian’s right hand held onto Mickey’s waist as the other moved further back, massaging a butt cheek. Nonsensical sounds tumbled from his lips when Ian started moving, slowly at first to get a rhythm started then faster to fuck with Mickey’s self-restraint. Ian’s rhythm stuttered as he accidentally gagged on Mickey’s cock, and Mickey laughed through his suppressed moan, the minor pause giving him enough time to breathe and collect himself.

“Come on, Ian,” he managed to taunt, “suck it like you mean it.”

Ian didn’t stop, didn’t even pause for a second, but threw up a quick middle finger before taking Mickey in deeper, pumping his mouth as his hand reached around and massaged Mickey’s balls. With all illusion of self-restraint finally abandoned, Mickey’s fingers dug into Ian’s skull as he alternated between complimenting Ian’s various assets to creatively swearing the redhead into the lowest dimension of Hell, his voice a mix between a moan and a gasp. A deep tremor travelled up Mickey’s spine, and it took him a moment or two to realize that Ian was laughing with his dick still halfway down his throat and the vibration was causing his entire body to respond, the build-up almost too much to handle.

And just like that, it was over.

The absence of Ian’s mouth and hands made Mickey blink into the distance a few times, his heart stuttering to return to a normal rhythm as his lungs tried to absorb oxygen at a regular rate. His erection was bouncing against his tummy like a thick, dripping wet and lonely flower sticking out in a field of black fuzz. His attention was drawn to something falling off his bedside table where Ian was rummaging through the content of the drawer and had somehow miraculously lost all of his clothes, showing off one of his finer features. As if magnetically drawn to Ian’s ass, Mickey moved forward and laid his hand on the small of Ian’s back, slowly sliding it downwards, softly smacking a butt cheek for funsies. Something in between a moan and a giggle escaped Ian’s mouth and he shuddered, taking a moment to enjoy the caressing before resuming his search.

“Finally!” Ian all but yelled a few seconds later, triumphantly holding up a condom and the bottle of lube that had been carelessly discarded during their previous session that morning. Turning around to face Mickey, Ian grabbed him roughly by the neck, pulling him into a quick kiss before turning him around and bending him over on the bed.

“Fuck,” Ian mumbled to himself, “I’ve wanted to do this all _fucking_ day…”

Mickey crawled forward on the bed and sighed happily, his body tensing up a little as Ian leaned forward to kiss and softly bite his uninjured butt cheek. The telltale sound of the condom packet opening and the bottle of lube being uncapped was like music to his ears and he tried to relax, tried to breathe deeply while his erection was painfully aware of the lack of action. He palmed his cock, softly squeezing and pulling up and down while he held himself up on one arm. He only got about three strokes in when Ian slapped his ass with a loud crack, causing Mickey to tip forward, almost losing his balance.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Milkovich?” Ian demanded, his voice husky and low as he flipped Mickey onto his back and pushed his knees towards his chest, “Did you think you could get the party started without me?”

A lubed up finger pressed in slowly, all the way to the knuckle, and Ian bent forward to suck a kiss into Mickey’s neck as he breathed into the stretch. Ian scraped his teeth down Mickey’s neck and sneakily added another finger, scissoring them deeply, the dual sensation causing Mickey to grab onto Ian’s shoulders and bite down on the soft flesh to stifle a moan.

“Hurry _up_ already, I’m _good_ ,” Mickey whined into Ian’s neck as he impatiently moved against the fingers inside of him, holding onto Ian’s shoulders as he snickered into his neck and added a third finger, slowly pumping and opening him up even further. Mickey scowled, but the expression was ruined by a broken moan escaping him, and that was all Ian could take. Between that moment and the next, the fingers disappeared and Ian sat up straight, lining himself up as one hand held Mickey’s waist in place. He slowly rolled his hips, the tip of his cock pressing into Mickey, and that pressure alone was almost enough to make Mickey come undone. He was somewhat aware that vague encouragements were falling off his lips, but there wasn’t much he could do about it when his mind slowly exploded with fireworks as Ian pushed in further. His hands found Ian’s hips and he dug his fingers into them, trying to concentrate on anything other than Ian’s cock slowly bottoming out; the slight tremors Ian’s body made when he dug his nails into his hips, the hitch in his breathing as Mickey involuntarily bucked into the movement, the fluttering of Ian’s lashes when he pulled out almost all the way before pushing back in.

It took Ian a few thrusts to find the rhythm he was looking for. A devious grin spread over his flushed face and he pushed Mickey’s right leg up towards his chest again, leaning forward to give Mickey a sloppy kiss, the panting and soft moans disrupting the flow of their tongues. Mickey’s fingers clawed at Ian’s hair and shoulders, keeping his body flush against him as the pounding grew harder, faster. Ian pushed himself up on one hand so he could keep eye contact with Mickey, his other hand slipping in between their bodies to wrap around Mickey’s cock, firmly pumping at a similar pace as his hips. Snarling, Mickey threw his head back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as hot ripples pulsed through his body. Silver light was gleefully shining around his peripheral vision and behind his eyelids like a stranger watching out, but no part of his active brain had time to analyze what that meant or do something about it. The pressure building up was too soon, too much, like steam in a kettle, and he couldn’t control his body, couldn’t stop himself though he wanted it to last longer.

A dark chuckle came from the back of his throat in a voice that did not come from his part of his mind and was not wholly _his_. It was followed by a wave of targeted cold, bringing down the pressure building inside of him _just_ a notch, just enough for him to tiptoe the edge instead of tumbling over it. He took a breath and opened his eyes to find himself looking into Ian’s beautiful green eyes, his red hair wild and unkempt, framing his face as sweat gathered on his forehead. He could feel Ian’s heat radiating off him, smell their sweat and the lube and the pre-cum of his own cock, taste Ian on his tongue. One corner of Ian’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile before his breath came out in a moan, and Mickey clenched his muscles and rolled his hips _just_ so, causing Ian to buck his hips with a gasp, eyes wide and dark with lust. It took Ian a split second to regain control of his body and Mickey clenched again, rolled again. Ian groaned even louder, his rhythm stuttering as the vibrations of his snort rolled through his body.

A shit-eating grin came over Ian’s face, and Mickey couldn’t help but respond in kind. Not breaking eye contact, Ian increased his speed, buried deep inside Mickey, changing his angle a little to hit his prostate with every thrust. He held Mickey’s cock by the base, occasionally slacking his grip right before hitting his prostate with great precision, then gripping it tight again. Mickey clenched, and Ian grinned, and their game didn’t last more than ten strokes before Ian’s entire body shuddered, stroking Mickey’s cock as he thrusted deep once, twice more before folding forward with a breathless moan and Mickey’s name on his lips.

Spent, Ian leaned forward, his body still covering Mickey’s as he rested on his arm and nuzzled into Mickey’s neck, whispering filthy sweet nothings into Mickey’s ear, begging Mickey to come for him. His other hand was still pumping, wrapped around Mickey’s cock, and the tension and pressure inside of Mickey built until all he could see were Ian’s eyes and silver sparks. Ian’s breathless voice in his ear had something in his chest tighten, something fuzzy with the ability to both pleasantly warm and terribly burn him, but he was willing to take that risk. Ian affectionately kissed him on his neck and the unexpected tenderness of the gesture pushed him over the edge, releasing the pressure on his chest. Mickey’s body shuddered as hot and sticky cum spilled over his stomach and Ian’s hand with a loud groan, leaving him breathless and light-headed, every molecule within his body saturated with bliss.

He could feel Ian’s smile on his skin as he slowly pulled out of him and moved his delicious warmth away, only managing to slightly protest through his post-orgasm haze as Ian left the bed to throw away the condom and clean up. A minute later, he felt the wet towel wipe the cum off his stomach, but exhaustion was slowly and surely dragging a dark blanket over his consciousness. Mickey managed to stay conscious long enough to notice the bed dip behind him and feel Ian’s arm snaking around his chest, pulling him close into his big spoon. All inhibitions gone, along with the stress in his body, he snuggled closer, happily relaxing into Ian’s warmth. His exhale sounded suspiciously like a content sigh, and right before he dozed off, he thought he could hear the vibration of a soft and satisfied purr in the distance, not unlike that of a large, peaceful cat.

 

* * *

 

Despite the exhaustion caused by the events of the day, Mickey’s dreams were strange and busy, packed with information as if somebody was speed-reading through multiple books before exams. Human organs and small animals and burning cities passed through his mind without further context and he just let them fly by, content to watch the pictures and not interfere with whatever was going on in his subconscious. It went on for what felt like hours until his eye was drawn to an image of a younger Mandy laughing, and he held out his hand for the frames to stop moving. He drew it closer to him, and the image turned into a memory he forgot he had.

Mickey had found Mandy, age 15 or 16 at that point, on the swings a few blocks away from home when he was returning from a drug deal at school. Those swings had been their favorite part of the playground growing up because they were indestructible, and the playground was far enough from home that Terry could not immediately find them but close enough to be able to run home if a rainstorm came down. On that particular day, Mandy was skipping school after she had broken up with her umpteenth boyfriend for failing to recognize the new blonde streaks in her hair, and was pouting to herself while gently swinging. Mickey deviated from his course and walked onto the playground, sitting on the swing set next to her and handing her his half-smoked cigarette. They sat there in companionable silence, neither feeling like sharing feelings or making small talk.

Mickey swung his legs back and forth until he got a bit of movement going and then started swinging in earnest. Mandy, always up for a challenge, threw away the finished cigarette butt and pushed off, lifting her legs high up in the air to make up for Mickey’s lead, not caring that she was wearing a skirt. They swung back and forth for a bit, each trying to out-swing the other until Mickey reached out to try and catch the chains of Mandy’s swing. Mandy yelled at him and reached out to grab his swing but Mickey had already caught hers and pulled her towards him to change the angle of her swing, cutting off her downward motion with a jolt. Unfortunately for Mickey, the motion also changed the angle of _his_ swing, and the siblings painfully collided as Mandy’s seat hit Mickey’s with enough force to dump him on the ground.

There had been a moment of silence between the siblings before Mandy had started laughing hysterically, her cheeks red and her hair wild, her swing still moving sideways. The bright sound of her cackle had caused Mickey to smile, and when she started tearing up and snorting through her tears, Mickey couldn’t help but laugh along with her. Mandy had to grab onto the chains of her swing to keep from falling off and Mickey was clutching his stomach when his abs started to hurt from all the laughing. It had felt good, laughing over something innocent and silly what with their fucked up home situation after Terry had been released from prison once again. It took a few minutes for them both to settle down again, the one making the other start laughing again, and Mandy slid off her swing and helped Mickey off the ground, patiently waiting for him to dust himself off before wrapping her arm around his waist. Mickey had frozen at first, not used to his sister being very affectionate, but had ended up putting his arm around her shoulders and ruffling her hair. They had walked home like that, the two youngest Milkoviches side by side, Mandy bitching about her stupid ex-boyfriend and Mickey suggesting ways in which to make him pay. They had walked through the front door of their house to find no one home and had then spent the rest of the afternoon playing Mario Kart and eating pizza rolls until Iggy came home with a bunch of friends and Mandy had disappeared into her room.

The memory ended and Mickey was left standing in the Milkovich living room of his dream, feeling alone. He remembered how it had felt to just relax with Mandy, to have their combined troubles at home banished for just a few hours, and suddenly regretted not spending more time with his sister. He sighed and walked around the couch towards the kitchen, stroking the counter and reminiscing about earlier that day, how his spirit animal had taken over and had pushed Ian up against the counter, how afraid he had been of it hurting Ian when, apparently, his soul’s manifestation had a very different mindset when it came to a particular redhead.

That particular image of Ian materialized in the exact spot he had been, frozen, his back pushed up against the counter, yellow eyes somewhere between scared and aroused, staring into the distance. Mickey walked closer to the dream Ian, cautiously positioning himself where he had been that afternoon with his body pressed against Ian’s. With a peace of mind he hadn’t had before, he softly caressed this Ian’s face, his neck, down his arm. Ian felt real, but still a little off, and Mickey wondered if kissing this Ian would feel like kissing a doll.

His train of thought was derailed by the sound of a puff of air being displaced behind him. Alarmed, he spun around to stand face to face with an image that was impossible to reconcile with reality. A large reptile the size of two garbage trucks with green scales dark enough to look like shiny black metal and eyes that shone silver light was somehow lying curled up in the space that couldn’t otherwise occupy more than three people.

His knees wobbled as his mind was having trouble adjusting to the fact that it looked like the huge animal somehow fit in the tiny Milkovich kitchen. He was only dreaming, he reasoned, and reality must have somehow bent itself around the creature to accommodate its size for Mickey’s understanding. The image wasn’t real, something in the back of his mind told him, it was just superimposed on his reality so he could see, so he could _understand._  So Mickey tried to understand.

The creature gave off an inner warmth, enough for Mickey to notice and remove the chill from the room but not enough to make him sweat. Hesitantly, he walked forward and crouched down next to the creature’s head, which was as long as Mickey’s torso was tall, watching its large silver eyes watching him. Sharp fangs protruded upwards from its long black snout and Mickey felt the innate urge to touch them to see how easily it could make him bleed, but didn’t. Two beautiful wings were tucked neatly into its sides and its entire spine was covered in a row of dark grey spikes all the way to the tail, but Mickey knew that it could lie them flat if it wanted to, like a porcupine but just a little more lethal. The long, green tail wrapped itself all the way to its snout, and Mickey was about to compare the creature to a cat when pure sunlight from a non-existent window caressed its scales, lighting up the entire room in silver and green and black, reminding Mickey of a shitty kaleidoscope Mandy once had as a toddler.

The creature slowly unfurled itself and Mickey stumbled a few steps backwards to get out of its way. It continued bending Mickey’s image of reality around itself as it shook its head and long neck, stretching out its body yet never hitting the kitchen’s ceiling. It pushed up on its feet, rustling its wings as its tail swung around and back, muscles rippling underneath the layers of emerald scales as it stretched to its full length. Then it stood there, silently, patiently waiting as its silver eyes pierced through Mickey’s blue eyes.

Mickey was at a complete loss as to what to do as he was faced with his very own and very elusive spirit animal. Apart from being initially startled by its presence, he felt no fear for the creature, even if he now knew that it could take over control of his body. But they had already established that he could take it back if he _really_ wanted it, so he guessed that the whole pissing contest had already been over and done with. He took a few steps back to try and look at it from afar so he could see the full picture and yelped when he realized he walked straight through the frozen Ian and his dream-kitchen counter. Waving his hand in annoyance, both images disappeared and he concentrated again on the creature. _His_ creature. _Him_ , essentially, or at least part of him. The materialization of his soul, if he was to believe certain scientists.

Foregoing the philosophical details, he focussed on _it_ , on the art that was its streamlined body, the dark shades blending into one another to form a wave of colors when the light hit it. The lethal beauty of its talons and fangs and the sheer grace of the wings, slightly unfolded to keep it away from the body as if it stood ready to fly. Wait, was it ready to fly?

The thought of his spirit animal flying away was strangely disconcerting, and Mickey quickly walked closer, suddenly very occupied with the thought of losing something he had never wanted to have. He held up his hand, and the creature lowered its head to level with Mickey’s, cat-like silver eyes the size of Mickey’s hand blinking innocently at him, positioning its snout underneath Mickey’s tiny-looking hand. He softly placed his hand on the snout like he had seen people on tv do with horses, and the bumpy texture of its dark scales made him smile before he slowly stroked the snout, vaguely remembering not to get too close to the fangs. The creature turned its head slightly sideways so it could look at Mickey and Mickey immediately stopped petting, terrified of having done something wrong. After a few seconds of frozen impasse, the creature pushed its snout up against Mickey’s hand again, moving it a little for emphasis. Mickey proceeded to pet again, softly, making sure to keep a steady pressure and rhythm.

A really low-frequency hum came over the creature and Mickey recognized it as the purring he had heard before falling asleep, except it was amplified to the point that his proximity to the creature made his body vibrate along with it.

“You’re like a huge cat…” he whispered to himself, and the hum stuttered a little in exasperation before continuing again.

 _Not a cat, you idiot,_ floated into his thoughts, and Mickey smiled at himself.

“A very _touchy_ cat,” he continued, “sorta like that little shit of a grey cat Mandy brought home last year.”

_That cat was an asshole._

“Oh, you remember it!”

_You shall not compare me to such a vile, useless creature._

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure all cats look down on other cats…”

_Your sister’s cat is quite beautiful, actually._

Mickey promptly stopped petting its snout as he choked on air, bending forward to cough up his lung while trying to figure out how to respond to his spirit animal talking about his sister’s eh… cat? He looked up just in time to see the creature’s equivalent of an eye-roll.

 _Not_ that _cat, idiot. Her spirit cat._

“What! You can read my thoughts?!” he squealed when he could finally breathe again.

_Not your thoughts, just your feelings._

“Oh, _just_ that, yeah that’s great.” Mickey threw his arms up in defeat, walking around in a circle just so he could glare into his spirit animal’s large, silver eyes on the way back.

_Don’t worry, I’m sure your thoughts aren’t that interesting anyway._

Mickey’s jaw fell open, “Are you _sassing_ me?!”

The hum turned into a rumble, and its whole body looked like it was coughing up air, the combination of a human laugh rippling through a giant animal’s body. It was strange enough for Mickey to not be able to take his eyes off of it as he had only ever heard and felt it laugh, but never seen it do so.

“What _are_ you?”

The creature hiccuped and the equivalent of an eyebrow was raised as it stared at Mickey in surprise before the cough-laughing continued.

“What the-,” Mickey sputtered, really hoping it could just put him out of his misery so he wouldn’t have to doubt himself for another 18 years to figure out what _exactly_ he was, _it_ was, what the thing inside of him stood for, “just tell me!”

_Not today, little man._

“What? Why not! Where are you going?”

_I’ll be here._

“But… I- I want to fly!”

A deep chuckle followed and the creature was gone, vanishing in smoke along with the rest of the Milkovich kitchen and Mickey’s dream world as Ian violently shook him awake by the shoulder while yelling in his ear.

“-- _UP_ , MICKEY! WAKE UP!”

Mickey sleepily swatted Ian’s hands from his shoulder ( _jesus christ, will you stop that)_ and sat up to find Ian’s eyes changing from yellow to green. Ian sighed in relief, leaning his head against the wall while breathing heavily as if he’d run a marathon.

“What the fuck was that about?” Mickey asked, both hands wiping the sleep out of his eyes, annoyed at having his conversation with, well, himself interrupted.

“Oh good,” Ian managed to blurt out between breaths, “it’s really you…”

Mickey frowned, “Who else was it going to be?”

Ian cracked open an eye and vaguely gestured in Mickey’s direction with one hand before closing his eye again. “You know, _you…_ the inner you. The intense one. Anyway, you were screaming-”

“Wait,” Mickey dismissed the screaming detail and focussed on the important information, “you can tell the difference between us?”

Ian snorted, “Yes, of course I can tell the difference. The silver lizard eyes are sort of a dead giveaway, you know.”

Mickey grinned, moving forward to give Ian a rough kiss on the lips before jumping out of bed, suddenly full of energy and vigor and _hope_. He pulled on a pair of boxers and rummaged around for a clean or blood-less shirt so he could figure out breakfast and then, oh, conquer the world or something.

“Mick.”

His mind felt strange, like a weight he had never noticed had stopped dragging him down, like he had gained actual wings that could lift him up out of the shit he had grown up with.

“ _Mickey_.”

The urgency to _do_ something was grating on his nerves but in a good way. He had to move, go places, be things, do people--

“MILKOVICH!”

“ _WHAT!_ ”

“Look at your _back_!”

Mickey stared at Ian for a split second before the meaning of Ian’s words finally dawned on him, and he sprinted to the bathroom, gliding around the corner, Ian scrambling off the bed and hot on his heels. They crashed into the bathroom door together and Mickey skidded past the mirror, pushing Ian aside so he could back up and look at his back in the mirror.

“What is it, I can’t see it, what is it!”

Mickey couldn’t see his whole back in the mirror, so he jumped up and down to see how far down the creature on his back went, pulling down his boxers to see a tail disappear between his butt cheeks.

“Stand still, damnit, here, just _look!”_

Ian had placed a stool in front of Mickey and Mickey impatiently jumped on it, immediately turning around and whipping his head around to look over his left shoulder, then the right, and left again, trying to see the full picture of the image that had appeared on his back seemingly overnight. Dark green wings spread out towards his shoulder blades, and the long, elegant body of the creature in his dreams laid diagonally across his back. The creature’s eyes were open, and when Mickey locked eyes with it, it shook its head and ruffled its wings, causing a shiver to run across Mickey’s spine.

Mickey turned to look at Ian, whose eyes were wide with shock, mouth agape as he stared at Mickey’s back. Mickey could see Ian visibly struggling to close his mouth and form words.

“You’re a--” Ian hesitated and licked his lips, but a smile slowly spread across his lips. Mickey was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in suspense, desperately needing someone to confirm what he thought he knew couldn’t be true. There were no such things as mythical spirit animals, and even if there were, he wasn’t special enough for something like that, so all he could think of was that the thing on his back was most likely a very big version of those tiny gecko looking things with yellow flaps on the side that could jump very far and sort of glide through the air. It couldn’t be what he thought it was. It made no sense! He couldn’t have _that_ inside of him!

“Holy shit…” Ian finally blurted out, and Mickey was getting very impatient.

“ _Whaaaat!_ ”

“You’re a dragon, Mickey...”

Mickey’s brain short-circuited for a split second right before his whole body flashed hot and cold.

“I’m a _what_?!”

_An idiot._

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks and filakia to my wonderful beta!


End file.
